


The Jeeves Around the Corner

by cosmosmariner



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Epistolary, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Pen Pals, Romantic Fluff, suspend belief here okay?, the shop around the corner, they honestly should know better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmosmariner/pseuds/cosmosmariner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overcome with feelings for his perfectly perfect gentleman's gentleman, a lonely Bertram Wooster enjoys a correspondence with a like-minded soul. What happens when he falls in love with his pen pal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at my writing journal 3/29/12

There comes a time in every man’s life…well, actually, it’s probably not every man’s life. In fact, I’m sure it’s not, but rather there comes a time in certain men’s lives when they have to admit the honest truth about themselves. The truth in my case, at least, is that the young master had become enamored of his valet.

If you have been reading my memoirs, you already know about my man Jeeves. He is a paragon, a man amongst men. It had been well over three years since Jeeves arrived on the Wooster person’s doorstep, all bowler hat and restorative and gentle quirk of the mouth. Since that extraordinary moment in time, I had come to rely on his strength and wisdom, his soothing presence in my household, his quick wit, and dare I say it, stunning good looks. Some of the other men of my acquaintance have routinely asked me if it were a hardship to have a valet who was as attractive as Jeeves. Why, wouldn’t the girls all want to flock to him as some sort of flocking things? I breezily laughed at such talk, all the while keeping my desperate secret locked away from the world.

The Drones have accused me of being overly devoted to him, but they don’t see the life sustaining qualities that he gives me; the perfect cup of tea, the finely pressed trousers, the way he plucks me out of the soup on a regular basis. Most importantly, they did not know of my dreams at night, in which Jeeves would sweep into my room dressed in his shirtsleeves, gather me into his arms, and kiss me silly. Of course, I wouldn’t tell the Drones, or my aged relations, or Jeeves himself of these disastrous thoughts. If I were to lose Jeeves, it would be akin to cutting off young Bertram’s arms and asking him to row across the Thames.

It had got to the point to where I dreamed about him every night. In my heart, I even stopped calling him Jeeves. In my dreams, he was no longer my valet but my lover, and when he held me close, I called him Reg. Which was his name, of course. Not that Jeeves wasn’t, but…well, dash it. Calling him Reg just made everything seem more real. Even though it wasn’t.

The whole rummy sitch more or less came about because of young Stiffy Byng. No surprise, honestly, when you think of all the watery broths the female had dunked me into, what with pinched policeman’s helmets and the like. She had been going on and on about Stinker Pinker, former classmate, current cleric, and future husband of said Byng. She was gushing about her delirious love for old Stinker, which I personally found baffling but, nonetheless, she was smitten.

“Well, bally for you, old thing,” I said to her idly.

“Bertie, it’s not my fault that I’m happy and in love and you’re not. Really, you need to do something about that. You won’t always have Jeeves, you know.”

She was right. I couldn’t hold Jeeves against his will, or keep him permanently in my employ without a good reason. And alas, there wasn’t a good reason. There was nothing that I could say to Stiffy, or Jeeves, or my meddlesome aunts, or anyone else. Love for one’s valet is not something that a _preux chevalier_ announces to the world. But I felt that I must let those feelings out somehow, and to that end, I devised a perfect scheme. This s. was very simple - I would place an advertisement in a particular publication that catered to invert lifestyles, looking for a pen pal confidante.

This p. p. was a gentleman’s weekly paper, which was published underground, and only available at certain bookshops by word of mouth. Since it was considered salacious material, it wasn’t something that was common knowledge. I was a devoted reader, although I burned the p. p. immediately after reading it so that the evidence would not be found.

The paper had a lonely-hearts section, as well as a “seeking” section. Usually it was for playmates or rendezvous, but at times one would see a person who was looking for friendship. I thought it would be nice to find someone who was like me, someone I could talk to honestly without fear of being found out, that I could pour the Wooster heart out to and not have to worry.

The advert read:

**WANTED: Lonely man seeking a discreet fellow to discuss life with via post. Looking for friendship with an intelligent gentleman. Must love music and laughter. Must be interested in giving advice to the lovelorn, or the otherwise generally clueless. No names, please. Write in care of Box 25 at the printer and I will respond.**

I allowed the ad to run for three weeks. In all that time, I did not receive a single response. I had given up hope, until I went to the printer the week after I allowed the advert to lapse and was told that I had a single letter in my box. Heartened, I took the s. l. back to my flat, hidden in my inner suit pocket.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Jeeves said as he smoothly took my coat and hat.

“What ho, Jeeves? I’m going to retire to my room for a few hours, old thing. Please don’t disturb me.”

“Very good, sir,” he replied.

I almost flew back to my room, and threw myself onto my bed, giddy and excited like a child on Christmas Day. I opened the envelope carefully, and found a neat, typewritten missive.

 _“Dear Friend“,_ it read, _“I hesitated to write because this sort of relationship would be damaging to my career if it were found out. However, I, too, am lonely, and would like to foster a relationship with a likeminded gentleman. I do not wish to go into detail about my life, as we are attempting to be anonymous, but I can tell you that I am a great reader. I enjoy art, music, a finely cut suit, and well prepared food. I prefer the quiet life, however in my profession I am surrounded by gaiety and the electric life of the city. I am able to travel quite often, which I love to do. I am the soul of discretion, and would be pleased if you were to answer my letter.”_

The letter ended with, “Your Friend”. No initial, no name. I decided to take it as a good omen.

I read the l. twice more. The old Wooster heart beat a little faster as I began to type.

 _“Hullo Friend,”_ I began, _“Was chuffed to receive your letter. I am also a reader. I like mysteries and the occasional soupy romance, although a gentleman of my acquaintance reads almost everything else. I am sure that if”_ \-- and here I had made the mistake of typing Jeeves, and had to find a hard gum eraser to blot it out -- _“my friend has heard of it, I can discuss it with you.”_

I wrote a few other things, small getting to know you things, and then ended with this: _“I say, friend, what are your thoughts about life in general? Do you believe in destiny?”_ and signed it Y.F.

I sealed the envelope and hid the missive under my newest spine tingling mystery until such time that I could biff off to the printers’ and do my part for speedy delivery.

\---

Before long, a pattern emerged. I received letters from my mystery gentleman caller every Thursday and Monday. I looked forward to these letters from m.m.g.c. almost as much as I looked forward to Jeeves waking me up in the morning. Jeeves, too, was looking rather rosy cheeked lately. In fact, the side of his mouth moved up a quarter of an inch on at least six separate occasions, and that was highly unusual. It almost looked at though he was imbibing the old b. and s. on a regular basis, however I knew that Jeeves would never do a thing while on duty, or at least not until after the dinner hour. Certainly not in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the week.

“Jeeves, old fruit, are you happy?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I mean to say, you seem rather joyful lately. Are you drinking a new brand of tea? Did you find a soap capable of producing bubbles in hard water?”

“No, sir. I am merely cheered by your good nature.”

Seeing him so happy made me happy, and I wanted to tell him so. “Ah, I see. Jeeves, I just wanted to let you know that seeing you so happy makes Bertram happy as well. Carry on then.”

“Very good, sir.”

\---

_Dear Friend,_  
Today my employer is away for most of the afternoon, and I have an hour of free time on my hands. In the past, I would have read a book, but today I decided to write to you.  
You mentioned that you like to read the “occasional soupy romance” as you put it. I do have a secret vice, and that is that I, too, read romance novels. I have made the acquaintance of a young woman who writes said novels, and I have every one of her works in my collection. I doubt you would enjoy them, as they are class-crossing romances, which appeal to me greatly for many reasons. I was nearly discovered by my employer as I had a few of them around my personal area, but I quickly deflected suspicion from myself and upon some ladies, and thankfully he did not see through the ruse.  
You seem like a reasonable gentleman. Do you think that love can transcend the boundaries that society places upon people? Is it possible, for example, for an employer and his employee to find love and happiness? 

_Hello, my friend!_  
This is why I enjoy writing to you - because you are one of the few people in my life who considers me a reasonable gentleman.  
My beloved friend reads the works of such female writers as Rosie M. Banks, that purveyor of mushy romantic rot. However, I snuck a peek at “Only A Factory Girl” - which seemed to be his personal favorite - and I must admit I was starry eyed and gape-mouthed. So much so that I biffed off to my local bookseller and purchased my own copy of “Only A Factory Girl”. I put a mystery dustcover over it, and have read it twice already.  
Re: your questions: I do think that love can, as you put it, “transcend the boundaries placed upon people” if the two lovers did not care a whit about what society thinks about them. To grab hold of happiness is the most important thing that a cove can do with his life. ‘Carpet diem‘, what? 

_Dear friend,  
I believe the term is ‘carpe diem’ - seize the day. You do so remind me of my employer at times…_

\---

My pen pal was fast becoming the person in whom I could confide in, for he was indeed extremely wise and capable. His knowledge of philosophy rivaled Jeeves’ and I found myself wanting to know everything about him. His favorite foods, his favorite song, if he had a favorite color or flower. I thought that the old Wooster heart was becoming as mushy as those Rosie M. Banks novels I had told him about, but I didn’t care. I only cared about what my pen pal thought of me, and I of him.

My only concern - problem, really - was that I wondered if I was turning my pen pal into a Jeeves substitute.

\---

_Dear Friend,_  
I had to write to tell you what happened to me a few weeks ago. I almost forgot, but I knew you would enjoy the sort of scrapes that I find myself in on a nearly daily basis.  
It started with my relatives attempting to set me up with a female for the third time in as many months, a dog that may or may not have been the Hound that Arthur Conan Doyle had written of, my brain dead cousins, and of course, my devoted friend… 

__

 

_My dearest friend,_  
Your last letter put me in such a wonderful frame of mind! The stories you told about your and your friend‘s romantic problems were quite humorous. It rather reminded me of a situation that happened to an acquaintance of mine recently. I hope everything went according to plan, and that the advice given to you by your trusted friend worked well.  
I often think of you. I have a happy life, I am very content with my world as it stands. I am able to retire on my own to read whatever books I wish, free to go and do as I desire. My employer is a very kind individual and I enjoy working with him. However, there are times when I am left to my own devices and I am curious if you, too, are enjoying the sunshine, a picnic in the park, a walk in your nearest garden…  
I feel I should confess to you that my relationship with my employer is complicated. In fact, it is he that I have feelings for. Does this change how you think of me? 

\---

I must admit that I was surprised that my gentleman pen pal was gooey over his employer, but, if I’m an honest Wooster, I wouldn’t fault him, seeing as Bertram himself was enamored with his own valet. I thought it was telling of his character that he would be worried about my reaction. Me! A man he barely knew. Although in the course of our letter writing friendship, we confessed more to one another than I had to any of the Drones.

\---

_Hello again, my friend!_  
I sometimes go on picnics with various relatives of mine, when it cannot be avoided. I always bring my friend - the one I’ve told you about in detail - which makes things better for me, as my relatives hate him (as least one of them, anyway), and I like to watch the sparks fly, as they say. Momentarily, at least. Generally it takes a bad turn and I must flee the premises.  
I much prefer to play the piano, or read, although anything I can do to take my mind off of the one I long for is what I generally do.  
How can you stand working with the one you love? Isn’t it dreadfully difficult? I know that my own situation is bally hard to remedy, I can‘t imagine being in your shoes.  
I will admit a truth to you as you have to me. It is my friend, my devoted and most trusted friend, that I love. I am certain that he does not share my sentiments.  
I must admit, there are times that I find myself thinking of you in the middle of the day, wondering how I can tell you about some wheeze that I have found myself in, or what you would say about a problem I had with one of my more forceful relatives.  
I sometimes often wonder if I am creating in you my very own Galatea, that is, I am making you in the image of the gentleman that I esteem the most? (If I am indeed thinking of the right thing)… 

\---

Months had passed. The twice-weekly missives from my gentleman were like life’s blood to me. I cherished each page. I read and re-read the letters every night before I dropped off into the arms of that Morpheus johnny. Before long, I knew each and every word by h. and no longer needed to read the l.s themselves. However, I often would just hold the l.s in my hand, knowing that my friend had held them, too. I made up my mind and decided that I needed more from my gentleman than only letters. And yet it appeared that he, too, had the same ideas I held.

\---

 _Dear Friend,_  
Your very first reply to me had mentioned the notion of destiny. I have been thinking about this for the last few weeks. I do believe in a sort of destiny, as I believe that all things are ordained via Deus sive Natura _, as the philosopher wrote. There are things that I have experienced in my own life that defies any other explanation. Perhaps it is a kind of destiny that brought us together._  
I must admit that, like you, I am trying to distance myself from the person that I love most. As you know, I am under the employ of a gentleman and it is he that I find myself attracted to. Surely, you can appreciate what I am dealing with. However, I find that I do not mind this at all, for my affection for him is beyond mere romance. He is, unquestionably, my dearest friend…

 _My friend,_  
What, exactly, do you love about your gentleman?  
I can tell you that the man I am daffy for is rather tall, has glorious eyes that remind me of an approaching electrical storm, dark hair. He has a profile that cuts me to the quick, and this fantastic nose. He looks as though he’s seen things that I could only imagine, adventures that I wish I had taken with him.  
He is a very serious chap, but I do see him smile on occasion, and when I see that, he could ask me to maim the Prince of Wales with a teaspoon and I would do my best to oblige him.  
However, I don’t want you to think of me as being shallow. No, my friend, the man I love not only has the finest of features, but also of minds. He has the most brilliant brain of any chap I know. We can speak of any subject, for nothing is too difficult for him. He is more than my confidant, more than -- and here I stopped, because I did not want to expose Jeeves in any way, and so I thought about the best way I could describe him to my mystery gentleman -- _a friend even. He makes me wish I were smarter, braver, more._  
He is my equal, and in most ways, he is a better man than I am.

_Dearest Friend,_  
The gentleman to whom I have pledged my heart is also tall, however he is shorter than I am. He is fair, with expressive blue eyes that seem to sparkle like a mysterious sapphire. He has the most beautiful hands of any person I have ever met. He smiles, and believe me when I say that it’s not unlike the first ray of sunshine after the fog when he turns that smile toward me every morning as we first say our hellos.  
However, like you, I do not want to sound as though I only love him for his physical attributes. On the contrary, he is the most generous, caring, loving man I’ve ever known. He is smarter than people believe he is, and wiser than every person in his social peer group combined. He fills me with such joy, something I hadn‘t thought possible before I met him. Every facet of my life is improved because of his influence upon it.  
Quite simply, I love him for all he is. 

\---

My bedroom had been festooned with lit candles, and a violin played, although I’m not sure where the player was hiding. Perhaps he was in my closet, I wasn’t sure. Jeeves - my Reg - stood before me, in his shirtsleeves (as usual), his hair falling into his eyes like I had seen only a few times before in the years that I had known him.

He held his hand out to me. “Bertie, sir…” he said softly, “Let me love you.”

I nodded, remained perfectly still as my man slipped my dressing gown off of me and I stood, stark naked, in the middle of the room. He was still dressed in his glorious starched white shirt, the sleeves rolled up so that I could see his beautiful arms.

He reached out and touched my chest. I felt goose pimply, as his soft yet calloused hands caressed me. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him closer to me. He reached his hand around and it settled on the small of my back. He dipped his head toward my neck, his lips hovering there above my Adam’s apple. I could feel his breath, warm and feathery, blowing across my skin.

“Reg, please,” I murmured. “Please.”

He kissed my neck, the heat of his lips causing me to burn. He kissed up my jaw line, and when he reached the old shell-like, he nibbled and licked at the lobe. I shivered. Jeeves continued to hold me, and started to whisper in my ear.

“You are the most generous, caring, loving man I’ve ever known. You fill me with such joy.”

I sat up suddenly in my bed. It was only a dream, but what a dream it was. What did it mean? My subconscious was blending Reg with my gentleman friend. It was quite the pickle.

Breathing heavily, I settled back into my covers, as it was too early for Jeeves to wake me. Something had to be done, but what?

\---

_My Friend,_  
Of course, he must be wise, if you are in love with him! These few months of correspondence has proven that you are an exceptional gentleman, and so the one you love must also be exceptional.  
I say, old friend. Obviously, you think of love. However, do you ever think that there are different aspects to love? Do you believe that love can spring fully formed just by words alone, much like Aphrodite from the sea? Is that right? Will you spring from the sea for me?  
What I mean to say is, I would like to meet you. Would you be willing to meet with me, in a tea shop, just to see one another in the flesh? I would very much like to see the person with whom I have been corresponding. 

\---

I was taking a huge risk in asking my f. to meet me. I did not hear back from him for days and days, almost a full week, which was entirely too long for this Wooster to wait. When I opened the letter, it felt as though I was waiting to breathe again.

\---

_Dearest Friend,_  
I’m sorry for the delay in responding. I had to consider what you were asking for. This is something that could change both of our lives, so I had to determine the best course of action.  
I would very much like to meet you. I feel as if I know you already, and for some reason, I think you might be the one 

With that, my vision became blurry and the letters began to run together, so I set it down. I took a deep breath and was rubbing my e.s when Jeeves floated into the room.

“Sir? Mr. Wooster, are you ill? Shall I offer you a restorative?”

I covered up the l. and shook the old onion. “No, Jeeves, I’m fine. I’m deep in thought.”

Jeeves raised a brow at that. “Sir?”

I glared at him with my best peeved face. “Oh, Jeeves, I do actually think at times, you know,” I said, and I meant it to sting.

“Of course, sir. I’m very sorry.” He bowed slightly and shimmered out.

I did feel badly that I snapped at my man. No doubt the feudal spirit made him ask the young master if he felt poorly. Deep in my heart, I wished that it were more than the old f. s. but I knew that Reg would never return my feelings. I looked back down at the letter and continued to read.

_I think you might be the one to help ease this yearning that I have. I am willing to try if you are._

At that moment, you could have knocked Bertram over with a feather. I leaped from my chair, my heart lighter, my step livelier. The snail on the wing, and all that.

“Jeeves!” I called out. He appeared next to me almost immediately.

“Sir?”

“Jeeves, tell me, do I have anything planned for this coming week? Dinners, engagements, what not?”

“Sir, I believe your social calendar is free for the most part. You have a cocktail luncheon with Mr. Fink-Nottle and Mr. Glossop at Drones on Tuesday afternoon, and a standing invitation to a party given by Mrs. Travers on Friday evening. We shall leave for the fete on Friday morning if you are so inclined to attend.”

“But nothing on Wednesday evening, Jeeves?” I pressed.

“No, sir.”

Wednesday evening was perfect. Jeeves normally took Wednesdays off to attend to his club duties, or catch a theatre show. I could meet with my gentleman without fear of Jeeves becoming suspicious. If things took off, I would be free on Thursday as well. I must say, it was one of my better schemes, and all without the help of my fish-fed marvel.

“Very good, old thing, quite good indeed.”

“Sir?”

“That will be all, my man,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, as I quickly legged it back to my sanctuary to reply to my friend.

\---

_We shall meet at an unassuming cafe that I know near King’s Cross Station. I will be wearing a grey suit, and I’ll be at a small table near the back. On the table, you’ll see a book and a red carnation. That’s how you’ll know it’s me. I’m looking forward to meeting you. 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday._

\---

The fateful day arrived. Jeeves biffed off to his Junior Ganymede club early, and I took the opportunity to freshen up. I desperately wanted to change my clothes, but without Jeeves there I knew it would be a hopeless cause. Besides, I did not think that my gentleman would go for the fruitiest of ties. Jeeves would not approve of a bright purple tie to go with my suit, I doubted that m. g. would, either. I settled on a pair of polka dot socks that I had been saving for a special occasion, found my best new hat and ivory tipped whangee and ankled over to King’s Cross Station.

I found the café easily, and stood by the window, peering in, to see if I could indeed spy my mysterious letter writing chum. There, in the corner, I saw a grey suit. The man had his back turned to me, so I wasn’t sure what he looked like. I hoped it was my gentleman; he was impressively built, with broad shoulders that narrowed into a trim yet powerful waist. The gentleman had lovely, glossy black hair. My hand itched to run my fingers through it, it was so perfect. I still couldn’t see his face, so I moved a few inches to the left, and saw the book and carnation on the table. It was him! He had been waiting for me, as he said he would. However, there was something so very familiar about my friend, something about the shape of his head, something peculiarly Jeeves-like. I held my breath, screwing up the same sort of courage that my Wooster ancestors carried to boldly enter through the door of the place, when suddenly he turned his neck and I saw his face.

My lord! This wasn’t some mystery gentleman! It was my man, Jeeves!

I stopped dead in my tracks. This couldn’t be Jeeves. Where were his valeting clothes? Where was the bowler hat? We weren’t anywhere near the Junior Ganymede! But I peered through the window again and saw that, indeed, this was my man.

My mind was suddenly swirling with the letters that my mystery gentleman had sent: _I am under the employ of a gentleman and it is he that I find myself attracted to… He is, unquestionably, my dearest friend… Fair, blue eyes… the most generous, caring, loving man I’ve ever known. He fills me with such joy._

I was as shocked as a _preux chevalier_ could be. Jeeves had been hiding his feelings from me all this time. He was in love with the young master!

This was destiny. At the risk of sounding like a lovesick beazel, I felt as though my whole life had been waiting for that very moment. Jeeves surely didn’t know that I was his pen pal, and so all the things that he had written to me were undoubtedly true. I looked down at my watch. It was five minutes until the meet-up was supposed to take place. I looked up again, and saw that Jeeves was tapping his fingers against the table. The poor bird was nervous, and I didn’t blame him.

I suddenly became scared. What if Jeeves thought that this was a cruel trick that Bertram had played on him? Would he become offended, or worse, leave my employ and me utterly bereft?

Dash it all, I thought to myself. I couldn’t leave him there, waiting for the mysterious writer of letters when in reality it was me. The code of the Woosters was very clear: never leave a friend in the lurch. My dearest, closest friend was Reginald Jeeves. Not only my dearest friend, but also my specific dream rabbit, if I were to venture into the dreaded La Bassett territory. No, I had to do something to make it seem as though the letter writer wasn’t able to approach. Even though he did approach. Of course, Jeeves did not know that.

I swallowed hard and slunk into the café.

“What ho, Jeeves?” I called out, sliding over to his table and launching myself into the nearest chair.

“Sir, please, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your club?” he asked, with as worried a look on his map as I had ever seen.

“Why, I wanted to stop in for a bite before I made my way to the theatre for a show,” I replied. “I saw you there and I thought it would be nice to just pop in and say hello.”

“But sir, I will see you later this evening,” he said, his Jeevesian brow angled sharply, his e.s darting around in a panic, as though he was desperately looking for his gentleman caller.

“Of course you will, old fruit,” I said airily, “But I never get to see you outside of your working persona, and was just curious. You can hardly blame the young master. Have you got a date? I mean to say, there’s a flower, a book of poetry. That’s a fine suit.”

“Thank you sir. Please, I am waiting to meet someone. They are to arrive at any moment. I have been saving this seat for them.”

I had the good grace to color furiously and look surprised. “Oh, I say, old thing, I’m terribly sorry. She may think that you’ve stood her up, or are prowling around behind her back, what? Jeeves, I’ll leave you now. I’ll see you this evening then?”

“Very good, sir.”

I left the café and instead of biffing off to Drones or even going to the theatre as I had lied to Jeeves, I hoofed it around the metrop, thinking of the predicament that I had landed in. Only this time, I would not be able to use the impressive brain-power of Jeeves to extract me from it. I had faith that I could determine the proper course of action; after all, my man himself believed in me if his letters could be trusted. And of course, they could be trusted - this was Jeeves, after all.

I returned to the flat to find Jeeves there, dressed in his usual togs. “I say, my man, what came of your date? You’re home earlier than I expected.”

Jeeves was wearing his finest stuffed frog face, but I knew him well enough to see the disappointment in his e.s. “As you may so colorfully put it, sir, I was stood up.”

“Jeeves, what kind of madness is this, that a girl would duck out of a date with a fine paragon such as yourself? What kind of world do we live in, man? I say, that is absolutely not on!” I cried, knowing full well there was no girl, and why he was stood up in the first place.

“I regret to say, sir, that I do not know. No message was sent.”

“Jeeves, I insist that you take the remainder of the night off. Biff off to some pub, or better yet stay here and take the brandy to your lair. I shan’t need your assistance.”

“But, sir, your evening clothes…”

I took hold of his wrist, then thought better of it and dropped it like a dropping thing. “Jeeves, I know this is hard to believe, but I can dress myself. Now, go read an improving book, or write some bad poetry that only M. Bassett would be proud of, an old _cri de coeur_ , what?”

Jeeves actually sighed softly, so softly in fact that I thought perhaps I was hallucinating. “Very good, sir. Good evening to you.”

I returned to my room and wrote a very quick letter, intending to deliver it to the printer’s first thing in the ack emma, or at least when I was able to force myself out of bed.

\---

_My friend,  
I apologize for not getting to you, however, I saw who I believe was you sitting with a rather gawky and awkward looking gentleman. Was that you? Who was that man with you? I must say that I was a little unnerved by another’s presence when we were to make our acquaintance finally. Do you forgive me?_

_Dearest Friend,  
Of course, I forgive you. There is nothing to forgive, honestly, as I can see why you would have been frightened away from another person sitting in your place. The man sitting with me was my very own employer, who had seen me through the window and decided to say hello. He was unaware that I was meeting someone, and when I told him so he immediately removed himself from the café._

_My friend,  
That is your employer, the one for whom you have tender feelings? I must say, friend, that I expected you to have better taste…_

_Dear Friend,  
There is none more dear to me than he. I will consider this matter closed._

\---

I sat back and read those two sentences again and again. This Wooster had fallen into the soupiest soup that had ever boiled. It appeared that I had angered Jeeves, and the Jeevesian fury was one to behold. Of course, one does not tell one’s valet that they are writing secret love letters to them, but I had to get back into his good graces again, as he showed a side of himself that was intoxicatingly delicious in his l.s, and until such time as I could properly make him mine, I had to make due.

I hid the letter in a pile of sheet music that I kept in my piano bench. The next morning, I oiled into the kitchen, where I found Jeeves making quick work of deboning a chicken. He had a particularly irate look upon his dial, and I could not help but think he was imagining his gentleman pen pal’s heart as he stabbed at the cold dead carcass of the bird.

“Oh, I say, Jeeves,” I began. He instantly sobered, affixing his customary stony visage. “May I ask you something, strictly in confidence?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I have toppled into the consommé again. There is someone with whom I have been corresponding for some time. I have angered this pal of mine and I wish to make it up to him.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves. Now, my friend reminds me of you in some ways, and so I’m curious. If I were to have offended you in any way, old thing, how could I make it up to you?”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he looked down at the poor bird he was butchering. “Sir, I suppose that you would have to offend me first.”

“Oh pish posh, Jeeves. I offend you every time I wear a pair of striped spats or a bright yellow pocket square.”

Something bright flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly tamped down, replaced by a devastating _sang-froid_. “I admit that there are times when my sartorial sensibilities are offended, but I understand that it is not deliberate on your part, sir.”

I smiled at him then, knowing - or at least hoping - that the burning pash that lived within him was the reason for these feelings. “Nonsense, old fruit. Once you and I parted brass rags over an unfortunate banjolele. You have been angry at me before.“

“Sir, that was long ago. I have not had a reason to be displeased with you for some time.“

“Come now. Let’s imagine that someone, maybe not me, has injured you. How could that person get back within your circle?”

He loosened the skin on the chicken and put it onto a baking dish. I could not stop watching his very capable hands as they caressed the meat. “I think, sir, that as long as a person was honest and forthcoming with me, I would be able to forgive anything. If it were someone for whom I cared deeply, if they attempted to learn more of me, to understand why I may have been injured, that would help tremendously.”

“So, I need to make a better effort to get to know you, that is, you in the general sense? Since you are not the injured party here, but, rather, one who is like you.” I stumbled over my own w.s and generally sounded like a fool, however Jeeves did not notice this slip.

“Yes, sir. That is the advice that I would give you. I do believe that it would be most helpful if you attempt to flatter your friend without being overtly obsequious.” He said all of this while not looking at me and slicing slits into the bird’s skin.

“Thank you, Jeeves. Go on with your fowl sacrifice.”

“Very good, sir.”

I hoofed it back to my room, where I typed a reply to Jeeves, but then threw the letter into the fireplace. This was not the time for hastiness, rather it was the time for a _billet doux_ , that is, for the young master to pour out the Wooster heart.

However, I found I could not do it. I could not write the words that bubbled from that thumping organ, as it were, because I found them all lacking in truth and honesty. Instead, I treaded lightly back into my main living area and sat at my piano.

I wanted to play something light and frothy and frivolous, but my heart was burdened by both the knowledge that I had hurt the one I love and that I was too much of a bally coward to do anything about it. Before I knew it, my fingers had begun to play “Moonlight Sonata”. I floated away with the music, pouring every last ounce of feeling I had into the piece, trying to convey my heart through song. I could no longer hear Jeeves stirring in the kitchen, but felt his presence near me. The thought of him so close to me while I bared my soul unnerved me, and I found myself playing Rachmaninoff instead, which did not help the situation in the least.

After a long while, when both Beethoven and Rachmaninoff had run their course through my fingers, I sat at the keyboard pensive and emotionally drained, desperate for a b. and s. without so much s. When I looked up, I found my Reg - Jeeves, that is - staring at me with a tender thingness that I had only dreamed about. In fact, I had dreamt about it the night before.

“Sir, that was…”

“No, Jeeves, really, it was…”

“…extraordinary. I do hope you’ll play that…”

“…very kind of you to say so, but honestly…”

I stopped mid-sentence, as did Jeeves.

“Go on, old thing.”

“Sir, I merely wanted to express how much I enjoyed your playing. It was quite beautiful. Did you know those are among my favorites?”

It hadn’t occurred to me until just then, when I asked my pen pal what his favorite songs were, that he had mentioned being an admirer of the two pieces I had played. Suddenly, it was as if all the lights of the West End were turned on at once in front of me. I knew what I had to do.

“Oh, I was just practicing. Bertram must branch out sometime, what?”

“It was exceedingly well done, sir.” Jeeves had a bit of a soppy look on his map, which I took to the good. When I smiled at him, he suddenly slapped on a most rigid face and headed to his lair.

I, in turn, ankled it back to my own bedroom and began to pour over Jeeves’ letters again, this time looking for ammunition. This Wooster was going to woo!

\---

Now, B.W. Wooster can spark with the best of them, but unfortunately it is normally in the guise of attempting to help coves who are even more unlucky in love than I am, and it usually explodes in my face. Of course, pitching woo to the fairer sex and courting the brainiest of men who also have the appearance of Apollo are two completely different things.

How does one woo a Jeeves?

The usual flowers and sweet words that one would use on a filly would never do. I took notes of all the things that Reg had mentioned in his letters; things he particularly enjoyed, things he did for himself when he was on holiday, things I did that he found pleasing. I made a list of favorite songs, noted his favorite poems, saw that his favorite color was blue, and that although he pretended not to like it, he did, indeed, enjoy it when I dragged him to a moving picture show.

When I had filled two pages front and back with tiny tidbits of information re: my man, I stuffed them into the Zane Grey western novel I was reading. Jeeves wouldn’t touch such a book with a ten foot pole, so I thought it would be safe there.

That evening, I would begin my most clever scheme yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner had been one of Jeeves’ better offerings, a fantastic coq au vin. While he cleaned the kitchen, I began to play the piano again, this time playing Debussy’s Arabesque #1. When the dishes stopped rattling, I began to tickle the ivory a little louder, as to lure Jeeves into the room.  
  
He shimmered in, looking for all the world as if he was hovering above the floor. He stopped near the bench and looked at me with an expression that, were you to slap onto a more pinched and less noble visage, would remind one of Bingo Little after a round with a tender goddess.  
  
“Oh, Jeeves!” I said, pretending that I had only just noticed him. “I say, old fruit, would you mind dreadfully if I borrowed a book from you?”  
  
He straightened up, slapping on the old frozen face. The Jeevesian e.s bugged out, looking for all the world like one of Gussie’s newt specimens. “Sir?”  
  
“I realized that it might do me well to try and read some of those improving books, Jeeves. I’ve read every mystery in the flat, and I thought it would be nice to try and expand my mind, even if there’s very little of it.”  
  
“Sir?” he asked again.  
  
I smiled at him, nearly fluttering the Wooster lashes. “Of course, you could choose the book you’d like me to read. I don’t think I’d go in for Spinoza, though. You know, I’m not the brainiest cove in England. That honor belongs to you, my man.”  
  
He pulled himself up to his full, impressive height, and the surprise radiated off of him. “Sir, I…” He cleared his throat and began again. ”Sir, do you want it now?”  
  
“Certainly, Jeeves. Actually, you can give it to me when I go to bed. I trust your judgment fully.” I launched back into playing the piano, this time playing a little Cole Porter to brighten the place up.  
  
When it was time for bed, Jeeves came in and assisted me into my heliotrope pyjamas, turned down the bed sheets, and fluffed my pillow.  
  
“Thank you, Jeeves. Say, you wouldn’t have that book for me, would you?”  
  
“Sir, I put it on your nightstand.”  
  
I looked down at said n. and noticed the book. “ _Either/Or?_  What is this? I asked for an improving book, not a test.”  
  
“Kierkegaard, sir, a Danish philosopher, recently translated into English. I believe you might enjoy his writings.”  
  
I gave the book the old fish eye and trusted Jeeves’ opinion. “I’ll give it a try. Good night, Jeeves.”  
  
“Good night, sir.”  
  
\---  
  
I started reading Jeeves’ book by Kirky-whosit and while much of it was lost on me, I did see a few passages that intrigued the Wooster grey matter. It was certainly not something I could talk to the Drones members about, for reading a telegraph was an abject failure for some of them, much less something as multi-layered as a beazel’s crinoline.  
  
There were a lot of interesting things that even my brain could grasp; this Kierkegaard chap was a lot more plain spoken than I could imagine a philosopher to be.  
  
He talked a lot about love. I wondered if all philosophers were as interested in the pursuit of the heart as this bird was. It looked like Jeeves had read a certain part rather intensely; the binding was slightly broken at this page, and if I looked closely I could see the faintest shading of a graphite pencil underneath a few lines. I decided to read that part very closely:  
  
…betaken themselves to duty, men who in their blindness cannot express strongly enough their scorn of the purely natural, nor stupidly enough sing the praise of duty - as though with this it was different from what you call it. Of such a breach between love and duty I, thank God, know nothing; I have not fled with my love into wild regions and deserts where in my loneliness I return to savagery, neither have I asked all my neighbors what I should do. Such isolation and such participation are equally mad…But I have not been afraid of duty; it has not appeared before me as an enemy which would disturb the bit of happiness and joy I had hope to preserve through life; rather it was appeared before me as a friend, the first and only confidant of our love.  
  
I laid the book down on my lap, and put every ounce of the Wooster brain to work. If I read this correctly, Jeeves equated love with duty.  _Love_  with duty. Suddenly everything made sense. It explained why Jeeves seemed so happy in my employ, why he never complained when I asked him to press my Harris tweed or fetch me a w. and s. He did it with love. I read the passage again:  
  
 _rather it was appeared before me as a friend, the first and only confidant of our love_  
  
Knowing now what Jeeves would say was the psychology of the individual, I admit, it brought a manly t. to the e.   
  
\---  
  
The next morning, Jeeves woke me as usual with a perfect cup of tea, a soft boiled egg, kippers and toast.  
  
“Oh, Jeeves. I read part of that book.”  
  
“Indeed, sir?”  
  
I struggled with the right way to impress upon him that this improving book wheeze actually was a good idea. I thought that if I were to recite a line I remembered, it might show him that I did learn something from Kirky-whatsit. I thought of the line that had so affected him, which also affected me in turn.  
  
“I have not fled with my love into wild regions and deserts where in my loneliness I return to savagery…”  
  
He stilled, not that Jeeves is a very animated sort to begin with; but his very breath seemed to stop. His face turned to stone, like a frieze upon a Grecian urn, much like that poet johnny had always gone on about.  
  
“Sir, I… I am pleased that you enjoyed the essays.” He seemed quite self-conscious. “I find Kierkegaard to be a fine start for light reading. Would you be interested in anything else?”  
  
Light reading? I knew Jeeves was a brainy cove, but I shuddered to think what would be considered heavy reading. “Dear Lord, Jeeves, if this chap was light reading, I should hate to see what actually constitutes a true academic pursuit! No, no, I can’t handle any more heavy lifting, old fruit. It’s back to mysteries for me.”  
  
“Very good, sir.”  
  
\---  
  
My plan to read more improving books failed miserably, as well as the sedate colors scheme (which I abandoned almost as soon as I implemented it, for I saw a cheerful gold and navy striped waistcoat that I wanted to wear and Jeeves nixed it), and my idea to play more of Jeeves’ favorites on the piano backfired as well, since after a week of Chopin and Beethoven my fingers itched to play “47 Ginger Headed Sailors”. I wanted to become what Jeeves wanted in a fellow, to be worthy of him. It was a difficult task, and I soon found myself wondering what he saw in me to begin with.  
  
I was a bear of very little brain, as they say, and Jeeves…well, Jeeves had enough brain for the two of us, plus the rest of the Eton rowing team and most of the House of Commons. I wondered why the fish fed marvel would saddle up with a broken down old ass like myself when he could have his choice of any filly (or stallion).  
  
No, this Wooster had determined that the time had come to make his intensions known, mostly because I couldn’t keep the secret for very much longer. I felt as though I was going to burst. I knew what had to be done. The question was: did I have enough of my ancestors’ vim and vigor to do it?  
  
\---  
  
“Jeeves! Say, I’d like to go to a show. Would you accompany me?”  
  
He looked at me with a modicum of disdain. “Show, sir?”  
  
“Yes, Jeeves! There’s a new picture at the Bijou. “The Lodger” - it’s a bit of a spine tingler, and it stars Ivor Novello. You seem to have liked him the last time we saw one of his pictures. Come with me. Please?”  
  
Jeeves looked around the kitchen, seemingly begging the icebox to die or the stove to catch on fire as to keep him from going with me. However, those appliances proved their loyalty to me and stayed functioning. He sighed, and slipped off his apron.  
  
“Very good, sir. I will go with you, if only to keep you from being too frightened to walk home.”  
  
We made our way to the Bijou, where I sat, petrified, at the scary film that flickered in front of us. Behind my hands at times I would glance at the screen, and during the climatic scene I yelped and reached for Jeeves’ hand.  
  
To my surprise, he had taken off his gloves, and his hand was warm and inviting. His fingers curled around mine and he squeezed them softly, then let go. My heart buzzed at the sensation of his gentle embrace. I felt as though this simple gesture was all I needed.  
  
But I knew I would have more.  
  
When we returned to the flat, I slunk off to my room. Jeeves followed me and laid out my periwinkle flannel pyjamas.  
  
“Sir, I trust you will be able to sleep this evening without nightmares?” he asked as he added another log to my fireplace.  
  
“Certainly, old thing. I know that you’ll always keep me safe,” I said, yawning. Then I realized what I had uttered to the man and was struck dumb.  
  
I could hear Jeeves chuckling softly. The fiend. “Pleasant dreams, sir.”  
  
\---  
  
 _Dear Friend,  
I know that I have hurt you greatly, and that has never been my intention. I want to apologize to you, in person, to let you know exactly how much I care about you. Actually, I more than care about you. My friend, I believe that I have fallen in love with you. I know that your heart belongs to another, but I only want to finally meet you and tell you, in person, that I love you. If you want to tell me to leap in front of traffic, you can. I will gladly do so. But please, tell me, man to man, one chap to another? I will allow you to choose when and where._  
  
The next few days were maddening. No word from Jeeves, or rather, no word from my pen pal, and the suspense was quite taxing, to be honest. I could not tell from my man’s demeanor at home how he felt, for Jeeves always keeps his emotions close to the chest, as it were, and in this it was no different.  
  
Finally, I received a letter from my p.p., and for some strange reason, I felt as if I were approaching the hangman at the gallows when I opened it.  
  
 _Dear Friend,  
I will meet you. The same café, next Wednesday evening? I will again wear the grey tweed suit. If it suits you to do so, please wear a carnation in your lapel, and I will also have one at the table._  
  
The week crawled. I passed the time as best I could, meeting Bingo at the Drones for a tremendously tedious game of darts, running strange errands for Aunt Dahlia, deciding that I wanted to begin going on long constitutionals in the afternoon around the metrop. The Tuesday before, I watched as Jeeves shimmered about my sitting room, floating from table to shelf, dusting everything in the flat, even if it had already been d‘d. I could tell that he, too, was nervous. I decided to talk to him about something, anything, to take his mind off of what I knew he had to be thinking about.  
  
“Jeeves?”  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“Jeeves, do you ever think about love?”  
  
“I have thought of it on occasion, sir.”  
  
“Do you ever think of romance?”  
  
“At times, sir.”  
  
“I say, Jeeves, are you in love now?”  
  
I heard a slight gasping intake of air and the soft sheep-like cough that only Jeeves could make. His hand stilled on the lamp and I knew that I had hit my mark.  
  
“Sir, it’s not prudent to discuss such matters with one’s employer.”  
  
“Jeeves, allow me to say, with all due respect, to the devil with this prudentness thingummy. We are speaking as friends here, not as master and servant.”  
  
I watched him closely, and I thought I saw a light pink color high upon his damask cheek. “Friends, sir?”  
  
“Of course, Jeeves,” I said very gently. “Always friends, the dearest of them.”  
  
He gave another microscopic bleat. “Sir… I am not currently seeing anyone.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“Yes, sir. I do have feelings for someone, this much is true.”  
  
Ha! Success! “Tell me, Jeeves, is this is the young lady who stood you up previously?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Jeeves, I want to know who my adversary is.”  
  
“Adversary, sir?”  
  
“Yes, yes, the person I must fight to keep you here, with me. You know, old thing, I would be completely lost without you,” I said airily, hoping against h. that the tender pash did not come oozing out of my mouth in a soupy way.  
  
Jeeves’ eyes flashed with a sort of thingness that I had never noticed before. In an instant, the look was gone, which was a pity, really, as it made his eyes look exactly like a stormy sea, just as I had described them in my letter. “I assure you, sir, I am quite pleased in my employment. There is no adversary.”  
  
“Bally good, old fruit.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.”  
  
“Because I’d hate for you to biff off. It would be almost impossible to find another man as perfect as you.” I grinned at him, because I had confessed the Wooster heart to him without his knowing. It wasn’t always that the young master pulled one over on his valet.  
  
His flawless brow arched above those beautiful e.s, and he nodded. “Thank you, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction.”  
  
“Carry on, Jeeves.”  
  
The fateful day finally arrived, and my nerves were as jittery as when I tried attempting to stand up to Spode, that is, rather shaky. I lit a gasper or two, never finishing them. I played a few tunes on the piano, trying to keep my mind occupied. It didn’t work, as I inevitably kept coming back to “The Man I Love” by Sophie Tucker, which was not at all appropriate.  
  
Jeeves left the flat in the late afternoon, carrying his valise with him. I knew that he would probably stop off at the Junior Ganymede to change and freshen up, and then I would meet him at the café, we would declare our desperate love for one another and all of that.  
  
Only, I was sure that somewhere, I was making a huge mistake. Why didn’t I tell my man that he was, well,  _my man?_  I suppose that is a valid question, but the truth of the matter was that I was scared to do anything in private. At least in public, Jeeves would have to still be a gentleman. He had his standards and I knew I had that on my side.  
  
I searched deep within my soul, looking for a crumb of the courage that the Wooster who fought with the Conqueror had; finding none, I pressed on, only for the sake of the Jeevesian heart, which would have been broken had I not shown. I put a small carnation in my lapel and stood at the door of the café, waiting to enter and find out once and for all what sort of stuff this Wooster - and his Reg - were made of.  
  
\---  
  
Five minutes until I was supposed to meet Jeeves. I lingered outside the window of the café, watching as he sat at the corner table, book and flower near his elbow and the slim black valise at his feet. I stared at my reflection again, smoothing down my errant curls and straightening my tie for what I think may have been the third time.  
  
“Well, here goes nothing, Bertram,” I muttered to myself.  
  
I glided toward Jeeves until I was directly behind him. “Excuse me, but I am meeting someone here. Someone I care about very much,” I said  _sotto voce_.  
  
Jeeves stiffened into a fairly good imitation of a charter oak. “Sir?”  
  
“No, not sir. Not today,” I replied, holding out the carnation under his nose until I knew he could see it.  
  
He looked up, and I saw so many unvarnished emotions in my man’s face. It took everything inside of me not to bung him into my arms and kiss all his worries away. One just didn’t do that sort of thing; it wouldn’t be  _preux_. Or, for that matter, legal in public.  
  
“Sir, I…”  
  
“Jeeves,” I whispered, “I think that we should go back home, where we can discuss things privately. What do you think?”  
  
He only nodded. It was a surprise to me that my valet could ever be a loss for words, but it appeared he indeed was. He rose to his feet and together we legged it back to our flat. My stomach was tied in knots, and since Jeeves barely breathed during our journey, much less spoke, I had no idea what he was feeling.  
  
When we entered the apartment, I turned to my man. I took a deep breath and started to speak, when he rushed past me into his room and quite violently closed his door.  
  
Well, that was the absolute frozen limit. Here I was, about to confess all the tender pash that this Wooster held for that Jeeves and he biffed off like some petulant child! I stomped down the hall and threw the door open.  
  
“Now, see here, Jeeves!” I began, but immediately stopped.  
  
Jeeves was packing his valeting case, a pile of letters and other miscellaneous papers spilling off of his bed and falling onto the floor. He had taken off his coat and tie, and both his collar and sleeves were open. His eyes were wild, and his face was a peculiar shade of pale.  
  
In a softer voice, I started to speak again. “Jeeves, perhaps I have gone about this the wrong way.”  
  
“Sir,” he said quietly, “How long have you known it was me you were writing to?”  
  
“Do you remember when I ran into you in the café the first time?”  
  
Jeeves paled even further. I didn‘t know how it was possible, he was nearly translucent as it was. His hands trembled slightly as he folded his undershirts to fit into his case. “I see, Mr. Wooster. In that case, I must offer my resignation.” To the untrained ear, he would have sounded exactly the same, but to someone who knew him and loved him, his voice had the most heartbroken and desperate tone.  
  
“Absolutely not, Jeeves. I do not accept it.”  
  
“Sir, I must.”  
  
“No. I refuse.”  
  
“But, Mr. Wooster, I…”  
  
I ran over to the c. and slammed the lid down. “No more Mr. Woostering around here, Jeeves. No sirring, either. In fact, there will be no Jeevesing! Reg, I want you to stay. Stay here, with me. Are you or are you not in love with me?”  
  
He stilled, and I could see that he was trying to master his emotions. He sagged a little. “Mr. Woo…”  
  
I glared at him.  
  
“Sir…”  
  
I put my hands on my hips.  
  
“Very well. Bertram?”  
  
I shrugged. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath.  
  
“Bertie?”  
  
I smiled at him.  
  
He swallowed hard and looked at his hands. “Bertie, I am. You know I am, I told you in those letters.”  
  
“And what did I say in my letters?”  
  
“Would you really maim His Royal Highness with a teaspoon if I desired?”  
  
“In a heartbeat, Reg. Say the word.”  
  
“Sir, you know this changes everything.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“It’s not proper.”  
  
“Hang what’s proper. Nothing I do is proper. Why should I start now?”  
  
At that moment, his hands trembled more. “Sir…because this  _will_  change everything. You won’t marry, you won’t carry on the Wooster name, people will talk…”  
  
“Do you think I give two figs about that, Reg?”  
  
“Reg, sir?” he asked, as if he had only registered my using his Christian name for the first time. He looked up, a light in his eyes that I had never seen. He smiled - a real, honest smile - and I thought I felt my breath catch. He was so bally gorgeous!  
  
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to call you that. That’s how I think of you. Even when I was writing those letters, and thought I was falling in love with the author, I held onto my unshakable faith that I would have you in the end. It’s you I want to be with, Reg.” I glided over to the bed and picked up a card. To my surprise, it was a handwritten postcard of mine, one that I had sent him when he had gone away on a fishing trip six months after I first hired him. “Every time I wrote, I felt guilty. I wanted you. I just… I just wanted you.”  
  
Jeeves rested his hand on the footboard of his bed. “And I you, sir. For quite a while now, I have loved you. I had hoped in my heart…Bertie. I had hoped it would be you, after all.”  
  
I could feel my own heart thump wildly in response. I flew to his side, taking his own hand in mine, squeezing it tight.  
  
“And so it was, Reg. And so it was.”  
  
“What shall we do now?” he asked, his voice timorous.  
  
Surely I don’t have to say what was going through my mind, do I? I had my Reg - my specific dream Reg, actually - in his bedroom, in his shirtsleeves, the light of love gleaming from his eyes. I pulled him closer and brushed my lips against his.  
  
Suddenly, my Reg turned into one of those whirling cyclones from the American Plains, bunging his suitcase off of the bed with a nasty  _clunk_  and dragging me onto the mattress. His hands explored, touched, caressed, all the while his lips never left mine.  
  
Jeeves lifted his body and began to unbutton his shirt. I put my hand on his and shook my head.  
  
“No, Reg! No. Not now. Not tonight.”  
  
He looked at me strangely, then flashed a devilish smile and moved to remove the studs from my own shirt. He stripped my torso bare and ran his hands over the Wooster corpus. As I had always dreamed, his hands were softly calloused and caused the most bally delicious sensations. I squirmed under his ministrations, but finding my own desire growing hotter, I hooked my leg around his hip and drew him further down.  
  
Reg growled his pleasure, licking and biting my neck, running one hand up and down my chest while the other tangled in my hair. He took a handful and roughly pulled my head aside, leaving my neck wide open for his mouth. I found that the hair pulling was intensely arousing, and I shuddered in my approval.  
  
He took an earlobe in his mouth and sucked it, flicking it with his tongue. I moaned, imagining what he would do to areas other than my ear.  
  
His hands found my trousers, and he deftly took everything covering my lower area off, leaving me as naked as the day I came into the world.  
  
“Oh, sir, your skin…” Reg sighed against my jaw line. His lips were so soft and supple, the sensations were electrifying my spine.  
  
Just his touch alone was more than I could stand - those magical hands seemed to know exactly how to stroke and hold me - but then he began to kiss down my chest, stopping at my nipples to bite and suck them, then blow on them while they were wet, which was a feeling that I had never experienced and thought might stop the Wooster ticker completely.  
  
When we broke contact, he lifted his head and I could see that his forelock was loose, hanging into his eyes. He looked so much like every one of my fantasies that I could scarcely breathe. The object of my affections looming over me, in his shirtsleeves, hair loose and messy, a dark look in his e. and me, completely nude and at his mercy…  
  
“More,” I breathed. “More, take all of me…”  
  
“Sir, Bertie, are you sure?” He reached up and cupped my cheek with the palm of his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“You couldn’t. You love me, Reg.”  
  
He laced his fingers with mine and using his mouth traveled the remaining length of my body to my cockstand. He licked up the vein with the tip of his tongue, stopping at the cleft near the head. I shivered and groaned, bouncing my hips in a futile effort to get Reg to do more. But I had forgotten that in a battle of wills, Jeeves will win every time.  
  
He licked down the vein this time, then with a swift movement, sucked one of my balls into his mouth and sucked gently. I muffled a scream as I squeezed his hand, feeling his fingers tighten against mine. He sucked slowly, then released it and took up with its twin. I could feel the little Wooster becoming tighter, the pleasure was immense and yet somehow I wished that it would never end.  
  
Before I knew it, his entire mouth had engulfed me; teeth lightly grazing the skin near the base, his tongue doing miraculous things while I shouted minor blasphemies at the ceiling. I glanced through heavy lids and saw my man, my Jeeves, drawing me between his lips, lavishing me, worshipping me with his mouth.  
  
I was close, and I told him so. He suckled harder, paying an inordinate amount of attention to the head. He licked at the tip, then squeezed my eggs in time with each thrust of tongue and mouth.  
  
“Oh, god, Jeeves…Reg!” I cried out. Reg stayed where he was. I watched his cheeks bow out slightly with the fruits of his labor, and shivered as he swallowed it, his eyes never leaving mine.  
  
Feeling warm, sated, and exhausted, I nonetheless raised myself from Jeeves’ bed and leaned upon my elbow.  
  
“But, I say, old thing, what about you?”  
  
He glanced down, his cheeks pinking ever so lightly. “Sir, you don’t have to worry about me. In my excitement, I’ve already found release.”  
  
I grinned. “Oh.  _Ohhhhh._  I see.” I began to laugh. “I did that.”  
  
He stripped his soiled pants off, and began to unbutton his shirt again. I stopped him again, pulling him close to me on his bed.  
  
“How long had it been, Reg?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Since you last…well, you know.” Even after what he had done with me, I still felt self-conscious about the whole enterprise.  
  
“Three years, four months, two weeks.”  
  
“I say, Jeeves, that’s an extraordinary long time to be celibate. Why, that’s almost…” and there I stopped, because I suddenly knew the answer to my own question.  
  
Jeeves had worked for me for three years and five months.  
  
I cuddled next to him, suddenly very cold as the radiator valve needed adjusting and I had no intension of letting go of my man. He ran his fingers through my hair, tugging on a curl or two.  
  
“Why don’t you want me to take my shirt off, sir?”  
  
I buried my face in his shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m indulging in my deepest fantasy. You don’t know how many times I’ve biffed in on you in your shirtsleeves and I’ve had to run off to the w.c. to take care of something that had popped up, if you know what I mean. It got to the point to where the smell of starch was…well, I‘m sure you can gather my breadcrumbs.”  
  
He smiled, a little quirk of the mouth. “I endeavour to provide satisfaction, sir.”  
  
\---  
  
In the middle of the night, I awoke to find the delicious feeling of a heavy, slumbering Reg curved toward me, his leg thrown over my own, a hand near my heart, his chin and nose within smelling distance of my hair. Sometime during the night, he had finally taken off his shirt and was bare-chested next to me. I shifted slightly, and as I did I came into contact with his other h., which curled around my forearm gently. He radiated warmth and seeing as my f. were freezing, I had no problem staying in his bed.  
  
I thought back to the letters that I had received from him, the conversations we had shared over the years, the improving book I had borrowed from him that sparked my imagination. I wondered if I had somehow violated Reg’s sense of duty, or his notion of love, when I finally made my declaration. I puzzled this the rest of the night, watching Jeeves breathe softly in his sleep.  
  
When he finally stirred, I kept my eyes fixed upon his face. My other secret fantasy had always been to watch Jeeves as he woke, to be the first thing he saw in the morning, when in all the years of our lives together it had always been the opposite.  
  
His heavy hooded eyes flickered opened slightly, and he arched his back like an acrobatic cat. I smiled at him. He smiled back, reached out and touched my face with a soft embrace of his fingers.  
  
“Good morning, sir. Bertie,” he amended. “I trust you slept well?”  
  
“Of course I did, old thing,” I replied, yawning.  
  
His eyes grew wide, alarm written on every line of his dial. “You didn’t. There are dark circles under your eyes. What happened, sir? Did I do something wrong? Did I take all your blankets? I knew I should have insisted on you sleeping in your own bed.”  
  
“Nonsense, Reg. I had a lot of things on my mind, and you looked so beautiful as you slept. I couldn’t help but watch you. And I wouldn’t have slept in my own bally bed unless you were there with me.”  
  
“You’re certain of this, sir?”  
  
“Of course I am. I am as certain of this as I am my own name. I am as certain of this as I am that Aunt Agatha is part Tasmanian Devil.”  
  
He smothered a chuckle at that, but grew serious once more.   
  
“Last night, when I… when I took you, Bertie, did I frighten you? Did I offend you in some way?”  
  
I slid my hand further down Jeeves’ chest to place my palm upon his heart. I could feel it bounding like a renegade rabbit. “Never. I was worried that I had offended you, with all my talk of not caring about my station in life, or yours. I know that duty is important to you. I read that passage in your Danish philosopher’s book over and over again. The one that equates duty to love.”  
  
Reg put his hand over mine and squeezed my fingers. “Yes, Kierkegaard. ‘Of such a breach between love and duty I, thank God, know nothing‘.”  
  
“Exactly. Reg, I don’t want you to lose who you are because of this.”  
  
“I wouldn’t, sir. I will continue to serve you as before, to the best of my abilities. I will continue to drive you to Brinkley Court, to press your trousers, to brew your tea. I will continue to cut your hair and draw your bath, and tell you when a necktie is inappropriate.” He took a deep breath. “I will serve you as I always have: with all of my love for you. But now, I will embrace you when you return from a sojourn, or when you come back from playing whist with Mr. Little. I will hold your hand in the theatre underneath our coats. I will assist you in dressing for bed and then join you there. I will kiss you in the hallway, in the shadows, in the middle of the night. I will never lose myself, Bertie, because I have found myself in you.”  
  
I’m not ashamed to admit it, but a little (yet still quite manly) tear fell from my e. and I pulled myself closer to Jeeves, tucking my head into the crook of his shoulder. “Reg, just let me hold you,” I whispered. I could feel him nodding his acceptance. Soon I could feel his warm, calloused fingers rubbing circles on my neck and shoulders, and I was lulled to sleep in his arms.  
  
The next thing I knew, I awoke in my own bed, a toasty fire roaring and an immaculately attired Jeeves holding a silver tray of tea and scones and strawberry jam standing close by.  
  
“Wha… how did I get here?”  
  
“Sir, I carried you to your bed,” Jeeves said softly, setting the silver tray on my nightstand.  
  
“When you say ‘carried me’, Jeeves, you mean in your arms?”  
  
“Precisely, sir. You had fallen asleep and it was time for me to begin my daily chores, so I carried you to your room, tucked you in, built a fire to keep you warm and did all the things I would normally do in the morning. Now I have your tea as well as some scones that I baked for you.“ He smiled at me, his eyes twinkling with good humor. “If you don’t mind, Bertie, I would like to share my breakfast with you.”  
  
“Of course, Reg. Please, by all means, come. Sit! Eat with me.”  
  
He left the room but then soon returned with his own teacup and saucer, and a small plate with a scone on it, already split and slathered with Devon cream and jam. We sat in a comfortable silence, eating our breakfast and drinking our tea, and when the meal was over, he reached over and took the saucer from my nightstand.  
  
“I trust you’ll tell me when you’re ready for a bath, Bertie,” he said, then kissed me fully on the lips. He turned to leave, and I only laid there like a rag doll, too shocked and aroused to go after him or even say anything.  
  
When my senses finally came back, I called for him. He appeared before me like a mirage, and I put my hand out so that he could take it and help me to my feet. However, the young master had a trick up his non-existent sleeve, and I pulled Reg into the bed and on top of me.  
  
“Aha! I have you now,” I said.  
  
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied, and kissed me soundly. I felt a stirring in places that hadn’t seen much action since last night, and before that my Eton days, when lads experimented because they could.  
  
Once again, I felt overwhelmed by my yearning for this man. Jeeves did not look any different than he usually did, with his somber black suit and waistcoat, starched white shirt and stiff collar, but the light in his eyes was brighter, his cheeks rosy and glowing with love. He had neglected to put the brilliantine in his hair and it fell into his eyes, which I found to be a real pip of an aphrodisiac.  
  
“I love it when your hair is down, Reg,” I murmured. “I think I’m in your debt, old thing.”  
  
“My debt, sir?”  
  
“Yes, Reg. And stop sirring me. You have plenty of time to sir me later.” I meant it to sting.  
  
“Sir, I mean…Bertie. What do you plan on doing to repay me?” His voice was devilishly low and sensual, which zinged me right in the little Wooster.  
  
“You’ll see, my man. Take your clothes off. It won’t do for you to have to change your pants again.” I winked at him.  
  
He leapt to his feet in a flash, stripping down and quickly folding them, then returning to my bed. Reg laid down upon my own pillow, and I could see him trembling with a mixture of nervous energy and desire.  
  
Seeing him in the altogether was a new experience for the young master. Jeeves in his shirtsleeves was bally marvelous, but seeing him lying there in the flesh was a sight to behold. I could see, for example, the corded muscles around his strong shoulders, the smoothness of his chest, slightly defined, and the softer yet firm area around his abdomen. It was all so different from the Wooster corpus, where my body was lean and whipcord thin, his was strong and thick and capable.  
  
It gave me shivers just to think of it.  
  
There were a few scars scattered here and there along his legs, a red line near his knee. I knew that Jeeves had served in the infantry as a younger man during the Great War, so I could only assume that these scars were from that. He seemed to be weary of my gaze upon them, and so I boldly (for me, at least) looked him dead in the e. and ran my tongue across the smaller scars on his leg.  
  
“Sir, no,” he whispered softly.  
  
“Yes,” I replied, traveling up his body to his hip, kissing him there as well. I moved even further, placing a kiss upon his belly and doing that wheeze with my tongue on his nipple that he had done to me last night. He squirmed deliciously and I knew I had hit my mark.  
  
I began to touch him soothingly, my hand barely brushing his skin. My fingers tripped over his ribcage, slipping behind him and taking a hold of his surprisingly luscious bottom. I squeezed it a few times, marveling the way it felt in my hand.  
  
He sucked in a sharp breath and wiggled again. I moved my hand away, walking my fingers down his hipbone and his thigh. I took him into my hand and squeezed oh so softly, relishing it. He swallowed hard and whimpered, and I knew I was on the right track.  
  
“Reg, what would you like me to do?”  
  
“Bertie, I…” It was always so gorgeous to see Jeeves flustered or at a loss of control; his eyes would turn into a dark pearly blue-grey color and his jaw would set, and one could see the old hamster wheels turning in the onion. This is what sent me over the edge, as it were.  
  
“My sweet, you don’t have to think. I’ll do the thinking for us. And I think I want you to claim me, and mark me as your own.”  
  
His eyes grew extremely wide when I said those words. “Bertie?”  
  
“Yes, love?”  
  
“Claim you?” he asked breathlessly.  
  
“I’m yours already. But you need to set your seal upon my heart, as it were. Mark me, Reg. Make me yours. I want you to be the master.”  
  
His mouth dropped, and he bounded from his reclining position to take me by the shoulders and kiss the ever-living breath from me. His tongue darted around mine, sucking in my lower lip. His hands ground into my flesh, his erection excitedly bobbing against my own.  
  
When we broke for air, he took my curls into his fist again and pulled my neck back, not too rough, but not so gently, either. He treated me as a man, capable of making my own decisions, trusting me with his body, and in turn I trusted him with mine. It was perfection - what I had given was returned to me in full. He kissed and licked and then sunk his teeth into me, a hard yet tender bite that almost caused me to come off right then.   
  
I suddenly realized, in the middle of all this ecstasy, that we did not have the right kind of things to ease our way, as it were. I thought this would be some sort of problem. I remembered that the few times I had gone down this path as a school lad, there had always been some sort of unguent present to make things good and slippery.   
  
“Love, we have nothing to make things good and slippery.”  
  
He cursed under his breath, leapt to his feet and legged it out of the room, returning in record time with a small bottle of oil that I vaguely recalled seeing in the pantry.  
  
“This will have to do,” he growled, and leapt upon me again with ferocity.  
  
We tangled with one another, biting, scratching, pulling hair. It was the real tabasco, that is, the most erotic e. I could have ever imagined. Jeeves coated his capable and talented fingers with the oil and prepared me with the patience of a saint. One finger, two, three, all the while kissing me and stroking my body with his other hand. Finally, I felt as though I was ready, and I knew I needed him.  
  
“Reg, please, now,” I cried.  
  
With nervous hands, he coated himself with the oil and sunk to his knees. “Bertie,” he said, his voice quaking, “I need to see you. I need to look at you.”  
  
With an almost painful slowness, he entered me, lifting my hips inch by inch as he did so. All the while his eyes never left mine. I could hear him breathing heavily, saw his hands squeezing my pins, and I watched as little by little all the Jeevesian control slipped from him and he became just Reg, just the man that I love.  
  
I could hardly speak at all, myself, moaning out mostly incoherent cries with the occasional “Please, Reg” added when I could make my mouth actually function. Reg moved slowly, but began to speed up his rhythm, and before long I could hear the slap of our skin together as he moved within me.  
  
“Mine, Bertie. Mine,” he chanted, moving his hips in time with my own thrusts. He bent lower toward me, and I rose to meet him. He put his hands around me and held me closer to him, his mouth moving upon my skin. I could not hear him, but I could feel him speak my name.  
  
He nipped at my earlobe and I arched back. “God!” I bally well screamed at that point, my pleasure was so great.  
  
“You are mine, Bertie. I love you so much,” he said in my ear, and then I could feel his body tightening up.  
  
The release was electric. He squeezed me so hard and so tight against him. Reg had put a hand into my hair and the grip became more intense as he spent himself within me. He buried his face into my neck, almost sobbing. I could feel him shuddering with energy, desire, and his completion.  
  
I kissed him on his shoulder, licked the hollow of his neck and tasted the salt on his skin. He was still buried within me, and he slowly removed himself, collapsing upon me in equal parts satisfaction and exhaustion. I was still as hard as granite, and he reached down, took me into his hand, and ran his thumb along the head of my cockstand. The sensations overwhelmed me and I cried out again, this time my fingers biting into his skin. He left the crook of my neck and took me into his mouth, although I only needed a few seconds of his brilliant tongue before I came.  
  
We lay there together for a few minutes until Reg realized that it was late morning and we had to go to the haberdashery today. He rose up and then looked upon me in horror.  
  
“Oh, Bertie, sir, no…”  
  
“What is it, love?”  
  
“You have bruises, sir, on your upper arms. You’ve a bite mark on your shoulder.”  
  
“I did ask you to mark me, Jeeves.”  
  
“Not like this! I have harmed you, I’ve blemished your skin.” He looked more distressed than I had ever seen him. I will admit, it took a little of the shine off of the experience. I knew I had to reassure my man.  
  
“Reg… love, I asked you to. I am proud to wear them. I’m proud to say that I made you lose control. I rather liked it.” I smiled at him. “Come now. Let’s shower and toodle pip. I think a new spiffy hat is in order for today, what?”  
  
“I can’t let you leave with all these bruises, sir.”  
  
“I say, Reg. You know I bruise easily. I’m not about to give up what we just did for the sake of having purple-free flesh. Only bananas and apples need flawless fruit. Besides, no one will see it. And even if they did, they won’t know it came from you. Buck up, old thing. If you’re lucky, this evening I’ll try to give you matching ones.”  
  
Reg’s damask cheek turned more than pink when I alluded to giving what we just did a go this evening. “Very good, sir. Bertie. Very good, Bertie,” he said, stumbling over his w.’s in a most un-Jeeveslike way.  
  
\---  
  
A month after I had revealed myself to Jeeves, I had taken a constitutional stroll in the neighborhood near the printer’s shop where my courtship via post had taken place, and while passing by the window I heard the printer’s apprentice yell out, “Sir! Sir! Wait, we have something for you!”  
  
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Me?”  
  
“Yes! We have a letter here for you.”  
  
I thought it strange that Jeeves would have sent me another letter after we had come to our understanding, but my paragon moves in mysterious ways. I took the letter from the young man, bung myself into a cab and sped off toward my flat.  
  
Jeeves was at market purchasing supplies for our meal that evening, and so I lit a gasper and reclined on my settee, opening the envelope with nervous and curious fingers.  
  
Instead of the typewritten missives I had received from my pen pal in the past, this was written in Jeeves’ exactingly perfect script, each word penned in bold black ink.  
  
 _Bertram,  
  
There are times when I cannot tell you with my voice how I feel. I fear that my disbelief in my good fortune overshadows my gratitude. I never dreamed that I could have you as my love, as my friend, as the other part of my soul. My words fail me, all of them; nothing I could ever express could ever do justice to the way I feel for you.  
  
Yeats may have said it best:  
  
How many loved your moments of glad grace,  
And loved your beauty with love false or true,  
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,  
And loved the sorrows of your changing face  
  
I love you for all you are, all you choose to be. I love your sadness and your joy. I want to share it, all of it, for as long as we live.  
  
Ever yours,  
Reginald_  
  
Ten minutes later, Jeeves arrived back at the old homestead carrying a few parcels. I flung myself at him, boxes flying out of his arms.  
  
“Reg, I love you, and I love the pilgrim whatsit in you, too.”  
  
My man held me closer, and I could feel the rumble of his deep voice through my chest. “Bertie,” he said. “Oh, sir. Always. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> First, I want to thank my beta, the talented and patient [](http://erynn999.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://erynn999.livejournal.com/)**erynn999** , whose help was invaluable. I appreciate it more than I could ever say. Any wonky grammar or spelling errors are mine and mine alone. Second, if the title sounds familiar...yes, it is based on "The Shop Around the Corner" and no, I'm not ashamed to admit it.


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